


Partner

by orphan_account



Category: POKEMON Detective Pikachu (2019)
Genre: AND HARRY IS BEING A DEPRESSED SINGLE DAD, Bad Parenting, Coffee, Cuddling, Cuddling in Bed, Gen, IT'S PLATONIC, Implied/Referenced Depression, Minor Character Death, PIKACHU IS JUST BEING A GOOD FRIEND, Y'Know?, Yeah I created a Pokemon Racist society for no reason other than i wanted to, and it gets a lil angsty for some reason, because... pokemon, but the second time through, but.... eyyy i tried?, holy heck there's a l o t of coffee in here, i have no clue where half of this came from, i just really wanted some more Harry Goodman and his Pikachu partner being pals, i went ahead and wrote out some stuffs, implied Touch Starvation, okay look, saw it q u i t e a few times in theaters, so as ya do, this was a bomb movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-07 11:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20308789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Harry Goodman was called up to Ryme City police headquarters to meet his partner and get his first debriefing, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting. Maybe a stern, gruff man who was going to give him a rough time because he was a newbie. A flirtatious woman who would turn out to be better at her job than her initial impression let on. Or, at the very worst, a partner who was also working through a caffeine addiction, incompetent at their job, and leaving him to carry the team on his back without so much as leaving him any coffee to keep him going because they had drunk it all.Of all things, he wasn't expecting... a Pikachu.





	Partner

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for _far_ too long, so.... whew, glad i can finally post it. kinda sloppy, kinda jumbled, but... ey, it's finished!

When Harry Goodman was called up to Ryme City police headquarters to meet his partner and get his first debriefing, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting. Maybe a stern, gruff man who was going to give him a rough time because he was a newbie. A flirtatious woman who would turn out to be better at her job than her initial impression let on. Or, at the very worst, a partner who was _ also _ working through a caffeine addiction, incompetent at their job, and leaving him to carry the team on his back without so much as leaving him any coffee to keep him going because they had drunk it all. 

...He really hoped it wasn’t that last one. If he was fighting over caffeine reserves with his partner, no work whatsoever would be done, and he would have to consider the situation inhumane and unlivable. 

Luckily, it wasn’t the last one. It wasn’t… any of them, actually. Anything he might’ve considered within the realm of possibility was immediately thrown out the window as he stared across the desk into a Pikachu’s wary brown eyes, watching in silence as the Pokémon took a sip from the cup he was holding without breaking eye contact. 

Shit, maybe it _ was _the last one. Whatever; he thinks he can take on an electric mouse 1/4th his size if the last cup of bitter, heavenly bean juice was on the line. 

“This is your new coworker, Pikachu,” Detective Yoshida said in an attempt to break the silence. At his side, Snubbull snuffed at being ignored, worming their head under the detective’s hand an attempt to get attention. Yoshida gave in, lightly scratching their head as he continued looking between the two sitting at his desk. 

The Pikachu let out a few annoyed ‘pika pika’s. Harry jokingly parroted it back to him.

In all honesty, it was more show than anything. The weak thunderbolt attack thrown at him certainly looked big and bold and sparkly, but in reality, he only received a mild shock. But Goodman decided not to mention that. Once the Detective's back was turned, he winked at the other, who was still glaring at him, perfectly content to watch as Yoshida chewed out his new coworker. 

Pikachu doesn’t apologize. Harry doesn’t, either.

He thinks they’re going to get along great.

After all, Harry Goodman wasn’t one to base too much off of a first impression. He lived with the philosophy that if he gave others that opportunity, that the people he met wouldn’t base their view of him on his undoubtedly strange first greeting.

But as the day went on, and he wasn’t acknowledged even _ once _ by the standoffish Pikachu, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, _maybe_, this would be harder than he had originally assumed it would be. 

* * *

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known any Pokémon before. In fact, quite the opposite. Harry Goodman could count more Pokémon that he had as actual friends than humans at any given point in his life. As an overly adventurous kid who often was too stuck in his fantasies to let the others keep up with him, humans his age had fallen behind. That had left him to explore the forests around his town with nobody but a friendly Bulbasaur at his side, led by the light of a Charmander that never quite acknowledged him, but never seemed to be more than a few yards away at any given time. 

He had never been a trainer, though. Had never seen the point in it, really. Everyone in his life had left at one point or another, and there was nothing he could do about it. Friends and parents, teachers and random relatives who tried to care for him when nobody else would, they never really stayed for long, and he had accepted that long ago. So when other kids his age were capturing their first pokemon, low-level Rattatas and the occasionally Starley, Harry was sneaking off to the forests to explore with his non-human friends; occasionally attracting the attention of higher-levels like the motherly Kanghastans or, at one point, even a surprisingly softhearted Charizard. 

His wife got a kick out of it. How the ‘Pokémon Whisperer’ himself was being despised by the one Pokémon he actually wanted to get along with. 

He said it wasn’t _ that _funny. 

She kept laughing, an adorable little giggle, punctuated by snorts, that was just so damn cute that he couldn’t help but smile. And eventually, after hearing her laugh for a few minutes, he was too. 

* * *

He wasn’t sure how to handle himself when he got the news. One moment, she was there. And the next…

The doctor had tried to give the news as gently as he could, but that still didn’t stop the vice squeezing tighter and tighter around his heart. His wife, the mother of his child, his first friend, the one person who had gotten him to open up and accept that some humans just weren’t going to leave him… had left. Unwillingly, of course, but she… she had promised she would never leave him. She had promised when he first told her about the people who _ had _left him, she had promised when they shared their first kiss, she had repeated that promise at the altar, and then again as she gently handed their new son to him. 

_ “I’m not going anywhere, dummy.” _

That promise echoed in his mind as he held his 7-year-old son’s hand, stiff black suit itchy against his skin as he watched the coffin being lowered into the dirt. It echoed in his mind as her Onix swept the pile of dirt next to it into the hole, smoothing it carefully so that when the grass finally grew, you’d barely be able to see that it had been there at all. And it kept repeating even when he was home, listening to Grams as she tucked Tim in because his body was just too tired to get up from their bed, hugging his pillow that she had ‘claimed’ once she realized that his was softer than her's, and letting the satin pillowcase soak up his tears. 

She was gone. 

* * *

He didn’t show up to work for a few weeks after the funeral. Ryme City just seemed so far for him to be traveling to and from every weekend like he usually would do. His bed was just too comfy, and his body was just so numb and heavy… it really just seemed easier to lie in bed all day, rolled up in the blankets he used to share with her, face buried in the satin pillow and breathing in her fading scent. 

Cinnamon and forest. 

Now it was just starting to smell like salty tears and morning breath, even though it had been days since he had stopped crying. 

Grams occasionally stopped in, but he just pretended to be asleep. He didn’t want to see the look on her face; her expression when he had told her the news was seared into his memory, and he wasn’t sure he could handle another heartbroken expression of the woman who had become the mother he never had. 

* * *

Exactly one month after the funeral, he had been filled suddenly with the burning need to get away. 

Which was how he found himself on a midnight train to Ryme City with nothing but a backpack with a few essentials in it, a crappy cup of coffee in his shaking hand, eyes red and bloodshot behind the frames of his glasses.

He doesn’t even remember most of the journey. The Howard Clifford introduction is so commonplace on this train that he tunes it right out. 

And then he stays zoned out.

Reality only seems to hit him when he’s standing in the completely empty station. No place to go. No idea what to do. 

At least he’s feeling something, now, other than sadness. Even if it is fear. 

* * *

It was complete happenstance they had run into one another. Harry was perfectly content sleeping in an extremely shady alleyway in a bad part of town, really. And besides, a Ratatta and his child had immediately curled up in his lap the moment he had sat down, so this situation wasn’t really all bad. He hadn’t exactly been overly fond of these specific creatures, but it was much easier to focus on petting the messy purple fur than to think about how Grams would react to his sudden leaving. 

The baby Rattata that was currently squeaking excitedly in her position curled up in his hood was almost enough to distract him from thinking about Tim. 

Almost.

He had just been rifling through his bag, trying to find something to feed the lil guys when a familiar, yet surprising noise sounded from the street. Harry looked up, only to be faced with piercing brown eyes. Familiar brown eyes. Eyes he saw most days, either completely ignoring him or trained on him in disapproval with no inbetween. Good ol’ Detective Pikachu, looking a little ruffled, and definitely confused to see his coworker at this specific moment.

Harry knew he probably looked a mess. Bundled up in a hoodie and a beanie, glasses askew over red-rimmed eyes, sitting in a trash-filled alleyway… 

Pikachu almost looked the tiniest bit concerned, and even that was a shock to the both of them. 

“Come here often?” Harry attempted to joke. 

He expected the small shock that followed.

What he didn’t expect was the Pokémon sighing, looking him over, then grabbing his hand in a furry grip and tugging. It took almost embarrassingly long time for him to realize he was supposed to stand, then follow on shaky limbs as Pikachu scampered back out onto the street.

Which is how he found himself standing in front of a lower-end apartment building, Rattata on one shoulder, baby Ratatta gnawing at his messy locks from her position on top of his head, watching his workplace acquaintance jump up and down in an attempt to grab the doorknob far above his head.

He almost offered to help, but he knew the other could handle himself and would prefer to _ prove _that he could. Whether his independence was to prove something to Harry or himself, he didn’t know, but he still watched in mild amusement as the Detective finally caught onto the handle, swinging outwards before letting go, then gesturing inside.

Understandably, Pikachu sent the Rattatas on their way, only rolling his eyes as Harry gave them one last scratch behind the ears.

Two long hallways, a few curious glances, and one awkward elevator ride later, they were there.

“I didn’t know you had your own apartment,” Harry muttered, and Picachu gave a few annoyed ‘pika pika’s before hopping up onto a precarious stack of books set beside the door. Just managing to grab the door handle and pulling it shut, wobbling slightly, he still manages to slide the deadbolt home before the pile of books finally leaned too far. Without even thinking about it, Harry is grabbing Pikachu by the scruff of his neck, setting him down on the floor next to him while using his other hand to catch the top of the stack and slowly maneuver it so that it’s once again semi-stable.

Pikachu only huffed, before turning and dashing towards the small kitchenette.

Harry thinks it’s the only time he’s ever touched the other without being shocked.

The rest of the night is filled with no further conversation between the two. Harry doesn’t comment on the threadbare apartment. Pikachu doesn’t comment on Harry crying himself to sleep. The next morning, he wakes up on a lumpy couch that isn’t his, a blanket thrown clumsily over his form that he _ definitely _hadn’t had before he fell asleep, and a now lukewarm cup of coffee sitting on the floor next to him

Harry managed to find a decent apartment across town the next day. A few weeks later, he finally called Grams back. 

They never talked about that night, and the fresh cup of coffee- no sugar, two creme- that was waiting on the Pokemon’s desk every morning was never acknowledged.

* * *

Harry Goodman doesn’t call his family much, anymore. Every other call is met with a voicemail as he pours himself into his work.

He misses Tim’s 10th birthday. 

Harry asked which Pokémon his son chose as his starter when he finally calls a week later.

Tim mumbled something incoherent, then hung up. 

It hurt, it really did, but then Detective Yoshida is bursting into the office with another file, excited look on his face indicative of a breakthrough, and he doesn’t have time to feel the pain. 

Well, if he keeps looking at the evidence instead of into Pikachu’s surprisingly sensitive gaze that he always feels on him these days, he doesn’t have time to feel it, anyway. 

He doesn’t look at the other at all the rest of the day.

* * *

Harry Goodman’s family doesn’t call much now, anymore. 

He tries not to cry every time he hears her ask to leave a message. It was a hectic time, and he understands that they never got around to changing it after her death. She sounds as chipper as ever, even with the metallic tinting to her voice. 

At least there’s one good thing about his family not picking up. 

* * *

It was the day he finally realized that Tim wasn’t coming that he finally offered Pikachu the spare room in his own apartment. It was a casual invitation, joking at the fact that his partner mightaswell just move in if he was going to keep using his larger living room as an investigation board. 

It was unspoken that Harry knew the other’s lease was up this month, and that Pikachu’s landlord was a Poké-phobic asshole in the sense that he refused to treat a ‘wild Pokemon’ like he would a ‘normal’ Pokémon who was ‘kept tame’ by their ‘human’ (it was evident to both Harry and Pikachu that the landlord had really meant ‘trainer,’ a term that everyone in Ryme City denied existed as they claimed they had moved on from that barbaric relationship between Pokémonand humans...)

(...it was also evident to both of them that Ryme City was far from being trainerless…)

As a ‘human-less Pokémon,’ Pikachu had to pay a higher fee as insurance that he wouldn’t ‘go wild’ and destroy the place, as well as endure constant checkins and a complete lack of privacy about his life, all of which was apparently seen as not only completely justified, but also legal in the eyes of Ryme City. 

It was also unspoken that Pikachu knew that the other was lonely in his empty apartment, and that the ache he carried with him almost disappeared whenever they had a late night, teasing his partner about his caffeine addiction while sorting through the case files littered across the floor. That Harry was also looked down on for not ‘owning’ a Pokémon, since most people saw that as a sign that he couldn’t be trusted with anything if no Pokémon would take him as a <strike> trainer </strike> human. That no matter how much others might force it, he would let Pikachu be his own being, even if they were living together. 

They might’ve not quite understood each other literally, but both knew damn well what the other was feeling. 

Harry wasn’t surprised when, while clocking out for the day, Pikachu was right behind him, falling into step beside him as he headed home. His only acknowledgment of the other was to hold the door open for the Pokemon, making sure it didn’t hit him as it closed before turning towards his apartment.

The electric mouse disappeared for a while, but Harry knew he’d be back. He left his office window cracked a tad, then turned in for the night. 

And if the piping hot mug of coffee he left on the counter was washed and put away when he woke the next morning, neither of them mentioned it. 

* * *

Pikachu never took the spare room. It was almost like an unspoken acknowledgment of Harry’s loss, and he still wasn’t sure whether he appreciated the respect, or if he just wanted someone to use the room to take the edge off the ache he felt whenever he passed by the closed door. 

The Pokémon acted like it was because of the cold, and Harry never called him out on it. Just mentioned that he needed to fix the heating system in that room (whether or not that was the reason Pikachu refused the room, it really was cold in there), and offered his partner another place to sleep. 

In the end, Tim’s room remained unused, and Pikachu took up residence on the couch. 

* * *

He had made it four months. Four whole months without breaking down _ once _with his newfound roommate. But then…

But then it was their anniversary. And then it was her birthday. Her death date. The date he had gotten the news, seen the doctor in the off-white labcoat walk out of that _ goddamn room that was so white and devoid of life that she had hated and complained about every time he came to visit _-

It was Tim’s birthday that broke him. Leaving him staring down at a birthday card, looking at the shaky handwriting through tear-blurred vision, hand instinctively clenched into a fist, wrinkling the tickets he was holding. He wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there, but he’s suddenly being snapped back into the present by a grounding weight on his shoulder, coworker nervously chittering to himself as he fusses over the other’s gasping breaths and tearstained face.

The evening is a blur. Or, at least, most of it is. He pretends not to, but he remembers all too well the feeling of Pikachu rubbing at his tears with surprisingly gentleness, the calming ‘pika-pika’s, and no shocks whatsoever. 

Pikachu is surprisingly soft. Harry guesses that’s why he doesn’t let people touch him. He understands, at least partly. Pikachu had to fight tooth and nail to get people to respect him as much as they did, and something as simple as how fluffy he was could be a breaking point. 

They never acknowledge that night. 

But whenever Harry gets feeling a little down, the other doesn’t seem too averse to touch. Harry pretends he doesn’t notice the way the Pokémon melts under the soft cuddles and absentminded stroking. Pikachu pretends he doesn’t notice how Harry’s stress seems to melt away when his fingers are lightly messing with his soft fur.

For as much as they pretend, they know more about the other than anyone else in the world.

* * *

It happened about five months into their little setup.

“Awww, is this your Pokemon?” the lady cooed, trying to pet the obviously uncomfortable Pikachu’s head, disrupting the hat he was wearing. She only giggled as the disgruntled Pokémon flinched away, batting at her hands with his paws, cheeks sparking threateningly. 

Harry doesn’t try and stop her; he knows Pikachu can handle himself on his own. However, he does fix her with a disapproving glare, answering with a curt, “No.”

Instantly, her whole demeanor changes. From confused, and then, to almost coy. 

“Awww… does this little Pikachu need a traine-

“I don’t think you’ve understood what I said,” he cuts her off. “He is not my Pokemon. He is…” 

He stumbles for a word. Trainer was definitely out. And.. were they even friends? Could they be counted as friends? He supposed roommates would work, but… then again, a Pokémon rooming with someone who wasn’t their ‘trainer?’ This lady probably wouldn’t accept that too well, either. It might not be illegal, but she seemed the type of person to call the Pokémon Protection Services on a poor innocent animal fending for itself, trying to be ‘human.’

“Partner. He’s my partner.” Harry finishes simply. He doesn’t give the lady a second glance, just turns and continues walking, talking offhandedly about their next case, trusting that Pikachu was following. 

From the small smile he saw out of the corner of his eye, he guessed that was the right thing for him to say.


End file.
